


nothing but dreams

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Series: Our Dreams Wide Open [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dream Sex, Fade Sex, Feelings, M/M, Masturbation, The Fade, Voyeurism, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Dorian wakes one night after having a very disturbingly detailed sex dream that may or may not involve the Inquisitor and he goes for a walk to work out his feelings. And maybe work out a few other things as well. In the process, the subject of said dream shows up.





	nothing but dreams

Dorian isn’t one for nightly wanderings through the keep. It just isn’t his particular cup of tea.

Too many crumbling walkways. Too many open windows looking out over empty courtyards. Too many soldiers with distrust in their eyes when they catch sight of his Tevinter robes.

So why is he wandering Skyfall this cool spring night, all alone and without a single glass of warmed wine to keep him company?

Dreams.

Cursed fucking dreams.

“Fool of an altus,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his hand wearily over his face. His mustache, already rumpled from sleep (he tries to keep from think of waking up on his belly, grinding himself deep into his mattress as his dream self was rutted by...someone. Someone sacred...Tries and fails) becomes even more of a mess. But he pays it no mind.

Instead, he paces blindly through the shadows of Skyhold, every bit of his mind locked on the sensation of shadowy-dream hands gripping his hips. Of the pleasant burn of being fucked still ghosting across his skin.

But it had been a dream.

A dream.

Hadn’t it?

“The Fade is playing a cruel game on you, Pavus,” he mutters, shivering when a cool breath of wind whipped around him, teasing at the overheated skin peeking through his robes. “It was nothing but a wish and a desire you cast into the Fade and some cursed desire demon caught wind. That was it.”

But that hadn’t felt like a demon.

That had felt...kinder than any demon-fuck he’d received over the years.

And familiar.

Why had it felt familiar?

Rough skin on fingers. Calluses that mimicked his own. But didn’t at the same time. They were slender fingers. Strong. They’d gripped his hips hard enough to bruise.

And we just wouldn’t even think about that, now would we. The faint bruises blossoming on his skin.

He’d heard a voice-so familiar-murmuring to him in a soft voice he could barely hear. In a language be definitely didn’t understand. But had heard...many times of late.

He’d felt the ghosting of loosed hair brushing his back as his lover had bowed over him, plunging deeper with each thrust.

He’d felt their sweat mingle on his back, a scarred and inked chest pressing against his trembling muscles…

He’d felt those strange, slender hips, grind against his every other thrust or so. An expert twisting that had caused that deep internal part of him to throb with a pleasure the likes of which he’d never felt.

“Kaffas,” he breathes now, taking a deep breath and coming to a halt on some forgotten balcony tucked far away in the Keep. No guards to witness his unraveling and the embarrassing tenting at the front of his robes.

His poor cock, still at half-mast and aching with neglect, pulses when he remembers the familiar musk of elfroot and woodsmoke. Of mana burning with a strange electric spark that had danced over his spine.

That spark...it had been familiar too.

“No,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around himself. “No no no. It can’t be. I can’t...no. It was a dream. A demon playing tricks on you. You just...you just need a good fuck that’s it. This is just...pent-up frustrations voicing their opinions into the Fade.”

_You can’t be dreaming of Mahanon Lavellan’s cock plunging into your ass Dorian Pavus. That’s very nearly blasphemy._

He snorts at that errant thought, shying from the realization that he’d had quite the detailed wet dream of Thedas’ savior and sighs.

“Dreaming of religious figures rutting you into your bed has to be a cardinal sin, Pavus,” he says, eyes closing as he raises his face to the soft light the dual moons pour out over sleeping Skyhold. His skin bumps as his mind lingers on the sensation of long black hair trailing over his skin.

Of sharp teeth claiming the soft skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Of a deep voice murmuring ma vhenan, as fingers buried themselves in his hair, forcing his head low and another hand spread his ass cheeks.

It really was a very detailed dream.

“Kaffas…” he mutters, bowing his head and slipping his hand into his robes to grip his aching cock. “It was just a dream.”

His palm slides slowly along his length, fingers curling lightly but he makes no move. Not yet.

Not yet…

Mahanon Lavellan.

The Inquisitor.

Dalish mage.

The man’s tattooed face rises in his mind’s eye. Sharp cheekbones, coated in faded green ink. Slanted, almond shaped eyes the color of green grass after a spring rain. Pointed ears much more elegant than Solas’ or even Sera’s.

Full lips curl into a cheeky grin in his memory-dream, whichever. Pointed canines-far sharper than any human’s-glistening in the sunlight as the man had joked with Varric and Cassandra.

Mahanon Lavellan…

He wore his long black hair braided out of his eyes, the sides of his skull shaved close so his clan’s ink could peak through. Scars twisted the corner of one of his eyes, marring the tan skin. But it did nothing to decrease the man’s wild beauty.

Did nothing to….

“Maker,” Dorian breathes, his hand tightening finally along his girth, the memory of those green eyes meeting his, bright with knowledge and power and laughter.

Mahanon Lavellan was not a hard man. But his jests all bore a knife’s edge that only Solas seemed to understand entirely.

His voice was a deep melody that inspired and terrified in equal measure.

Dorian groaned at the thought of that voice growling his name in the shadows of a well-appointed bed and the slick sound of his hand riding slowly up his cock seems to echo in the shadows of his hideaway.

“Mahanon,” he murmurs, unbidden, his thumb sliding along the tip of his pulsing and fully erect cock now. “Amatus…”

His strokes grow more insistent, the more he thinks of the Inquisitor. The more he remembers the man himself.

Lounging in his shadowy corner of the library, reading whatever book Dorian had set aside for him, chin tucked in the palm of his hand and brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration.

The Inquisitor, standing straight-backed and proud before enemy forces, glowing hand aloft and teeth bared in a dangerous grin that had caused a shiver of fear and desire to dart down his spine.

Mahanon dancing with Cassandra around a campfire, deep voice raised in a traditional Dalish ballad that only Solas had understood. The Seeker had blushed at his gentle touch and soft voice.

Dorian had wished it was he in the Inquisitor’s arms.

Fool.

Mahanon Lavellan.

Staff moving in efficient patterns that nonetheless stunned for their simplicity and economy.

Straight back bowing ever so slightly before Orlais’ Empress, sharp eyes hard in the elegant twists of the mask he’d worn that night in Halamshiral.

The faint crackle of magic flicking along his gloved fingers as the night and its secret game had progressed.

He was quite simply one of the most powerful arcanists Dorian had ever met.

His cock is leaking now, the mess coating his hand, his robes, the rough-hewn rocks he leans against.

He pays it no mind.

Instead, he grits his teeth, spreads his feet a bit apart and shoving his robes aside, he reaches with his other hand behind himself to toy at his aching hole. Bowing his head, he curses. He’d left his chambers without his grimoire and tonics belt.

The pleasure in the pit of his stomach grows though, tensing his muscles. For now, he contents himself with a brutal twisting of his hand on his leaking cock and the gentle press of his index finger along the tight, puckered muscles of his perineum…

For now…

He contents himself with teasing.

For now, he contents himself with a dream memory and a voice murmuring endearments in his ear while cruel fingers sank themselves into his hair.

For now…

He thinks of green eyes crinkling at the corners and kissable-fuckable-lips curling in a smile only meant for him.

He wonders what it would feel like to be taken body and soul by the Inquisitor...

Sweet Maker...

His release hits him with the force of a charging, enraged bronto and he has to bite back a shouted name as his seed spatters across the balustrade.

Pleasure, white-hot and as wild as an immolation, rocks through his aching, frustrated body and his hands work to milk and tease every bit of that pleasure free. He hisses, pressing his index finger-unoiled but still needed-against his hole, the sweet burn of promise almost making him press deeper but no…

No that can wait for a little while later when he’s ensconced safely back in his room and with the still-wrapped gift Iron Bull had given him with a wink and a bawdy jest.

No...that can wai-

“Well that was a show.”

A deep voice, husky and cursedly familiar, issues from the shadows of the doorway Dorian had slipped unnoticed through mere moments before. And the altus gasps, hands flying free of his robes to reach for the staff he’d been too stupid to bring.

“Rough night, altus?”

Eyes, glowing in that strange way the elves share with woodland creatures, watch him from the crumbling doorway and Dorian’s narrow.

“Inquisitor,” he snaps, cringing inwardly at the just-fucked quality of his voice. “It’s rude to spy.”

“Mmm,” Mahanon hums, deep voice doing something wicked to Dorian’s quaking body. “Perhaps.”

He slips free of the shadowed doorway now, stepping up onto the wide, empty walkway and Dorian’s mind actually stops at the sight of the man’s bare, scarred and tattooed chest in the moonlight.

Low slung breeches, soft linen that does nothing to hide his musculature or his own semi-erect cock, cling to his long legs.

He is barefoot-something that would drive Dorian to distraction if he wasn’t...well.

Being watched hungrily by the savior of Thedas.

“What are you doing out here Dorian?” Mahanon asks, taking another slow step forward, closer into Dorian’s space. “It’s late and much cooler than you care for. Did you have a...dream?”

Dorian’s mouth pops open, to say something snarky to deflect the situation but then he stops.

Because of the way Mahanon had said the word “dream.”

The way he had hesitated. Then lingered on the word.

The hungry gleam in his eyes had...had…

_Oh Maker._

“How did you know?” Dorian asks, deflating a hair and resting against the still damp stones of the balcony.

Mahanon is watching him, a thoughtful expression on his face. It draws his straight black brows close, puckering the tattooed skin between them. His eyes-the color is indeterminate in the pale moonlight dappling their bodies-are narrowed in consideration.

It’s a...well.

It’s the expression of a man trying to work out a problem, the solution just within grasp but still elusive in the ether.

It’s the expression of a man who knows that once he gets that solution…

He will never let it go.

Dorian’s tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip and he casts about for anything to say. Or maybe an escape route.

But Mahanon Lavellan-slender as he may be-is a person used to filling the space he has been given.

He had been his Keeper’s First He had been trained from the moment of his choosing to command his clan.

The Inquisition had only honed his intensity.

There is no escape for Dorian Pavus.

Mahanon’s hands rise to rest firmly on the crumbling edge of the balcony Dorian rests against and he cocks his head in consideration, his intense eyes watching the other mage’s tongue on its path.

“My dreams are usually of a different nature,” Mahanon says finally, something dark coloring his tone. “A little bit more red tinted and full of screams. But tonight…” He lifts one hand slowly, eyes watchful for any panic or discomfort on Dorian’s part (ridiculous really) to stroke along Dorian’s cheekbone. “Tonight’s dreams were far more palatable than I’ve grown used to. Some would even say they were...educational.”

Those words, paired with the soft caress moving along his cheek to press against the juncture of his jaw and neck, nearly sets Dorian’s skin on fire.

Energy dances over his skin where Mahanon’s hand rests. The force mage commands a certain kind of magical prowess none of his gathered inner circle have mastered. It is something Dorian rather approves of.

“Inquisitor, I-” he starts to say but Mahanon chuckles and lovers his head to murmur in Dorian’s ear, “Titles? Really, Dorian? When we’ve both seemed to share a dream of me fucking you in my bed?”

Dorian gasps the moment the other man’s lips trail from his ear to press against the thundering pulse in his throat. His vision goes white when Mahanon kisses him, his teeth nipping lightly at his heated skin.

“Maker,” he breathes, hands rising to grip the other man’s waist. “Yes.”

Mahanon chuckles, licking slowly over the aching mark he’s left and he pulls enough away to meet Dorian’s glazed eyes.

“So it wasn’t just a dream, then,” he says, that dark edge still lingering in his voice. “That’s interesting and...slightly troubling.”

“Troubling? Why?” Dorian croaks, striving for some sort of decorum. He is a powerful mage after all, knowledgeable in the more shadowy forms of magic no one is taught in the rustic south.

But gods curse it.

His mind is nothing but a jumbled mess thanks to the blood rushing once more to his nethers.

Mahanons lips quirk in a ghost of his usual grin and he runs his fingers through Dorian’s mussed hair.

“It’s troubling, Dorian, because one of us left his guard down,” he says, thumb stroking along the hollow beneath Dorian’s left eye. “One of us left himself open to the machinations of the Fade. And so doing…” His hooded gaze once more lingers on Dorian’s lips.

“Yes?” Dorian says, his voice more of a breath and a keen than anything and he yearns forward before he can stop himself, fingers curling in the waistband of Mahanons breeches.

“One of us let the other into his thoughts,” Mahanon says and before Dorian can even think about that little declaration, the Dalish mage yanks Dorian close and smashes their mouths together in a brutal, heated kiss the likes of which Dorian Pavus had never taken part of before.

The kiss is full of teeth, of tongues twisting together, of gasps and groans and heated breath tasting of wine and something herbal

It’s wild. It’s almost cruel.

Both men seek to dominate the other for a moment. Their fingers tangle in each other's clothes, their hair, moving in frantic patterns across their bodies.

For a moment, Dorian almost considers fighting back but then...then the heat in the pit of his belly grows and with a soft sigh, he submits to the other mage’s lips.

Mahanon, feeling Dorian’s body relax and bend beneath his hands, growls something in elvish.

His voice, wild and deep and ragged with desire, does more to awaken the smoldering fire in Dorian’s chest, than even the faded dream ever could.

“Take me,” he whispers, when their lips finally part and their foreheads meet as they struggle to catch their breath. “Take me, however you like. Wherever you like. I need...I need you to-to-”

His eyes close, that stubborn, prideful sliver of his soul still struggling to accept this part of himself, and he sobs, fingers shaking on Mahanon’s chest.

“Dorian,” Mahanon murmurs, his voice far gentler than Dorian had ever heard it before. “I need you to say it. Please. For my peace of mind.”

His fingers are gentle on Dorian’s cheeks, suddenly wet with tears. He presses a gentle kiss to Dorian’s forehead.

“Say what you want and we will proceed accordingly, all right?”

Green eyes. Bright in the moonlight.

Dorian looks up into them and feels for the first time since he’d escaped Tevinter…

A certain kind of peace.

 _I will keep you safe_ , he remembers Mahanon saying that day in the distant future.

And Maker bless it.

“Take me to bed, Inquisitor Lavellan,” he says, hand rising to grip the Dalish man’s chin and pull him in for another, far gentler kiss. “Take me to bed and fuck me.”

Mahanon Lavellan breaks the kiss with a sharp bark of laughter before nodding.

“Your wish is my command, _ma vhenan_ ,” he says, offering Dorian his hand.

Callused fingers, similar to Dorian’s own, brush over his to wrap his hand in a warm grip and for the first time since he’d stumbled out into this forgotten corner of Skyhold…

Dorian feels a certain kind of peace.


End file.
